


The face at the window

by Alona



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Child Death Mention, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mystery of Lost-hope; an uneasy alliance between two captives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The face at the window

"What is it, Stephen?"

"Nothing, my lady."

"I saw you startle... Will you not say?"

"I am sorry to distress you." 

They were dancing together at Lost-hope. 

It is difficult enough in the midst of a fashionable ball to fix one's partner with a searching look; all the more difficult when one is dancing against one's will in a dim ruinous hall; but as the set moved on and cut them apart Stephen felt Lady Pole's implacable gaze on him. He often felt it in England and in Faerie leaning on him for strength he could not give and which she did not want. He pictured it as a little grey bird perched wearily on his shoulder, and the impression was at times so strong he worried others must surely see the connection between them. When he was alone he would sometimes raise his hand as if to comfort the little bird, then dropping it again leave the gesture unfinished. 

The vicissitudes of the dance brought them back to each other; hand in hand they turned about the room. 

"Well?" she said. 

"I thought I saw a face looking in at the window. I was mistaken. There was nothing but the trees." 

After an interval she asked, "What kind of a face?"

"A white face, my lady, under a dirty cap. A child's face." He paused. "It looked terrified." 

"No wonder."

She did not mention it again. The dance ended. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair appeared and required that Stephen should hear his opinions; a fairy gentleman with a live boa serving as his cravat claimed Lady Pole for the next dance. When they saw each other again it was in Sir Walter's house. 

 

In the morning Mrs Strange came and stayed for an hour. She told Emma the latest news of the war and the gossip she had heard while taking tea the day before with a number of other ladies whose male appendages were in Portugal. She showed off her trim new spencer and asked Emma to guess how much the finely carved ivory buttons had cost. To Emma they looked like teeth ripped from a child's mouth, and she said so. Mrs Strange was silent a long moment. All the brightness fell away from her face like autumn leaves dropping in a harsh breeze. 

"There is something in what you say," she said faintly. 

Emma remembered that Mr Strange was at war and that Mrs Strange professed to love him very dearly. That only last month he had been mistakenly reported as dead. Through her enchantment she felt only the ghost of contrition, but she knew the words to say; she apologized as earnestly as she could, and Mrs Strange smiled and laughed again. Emma saw the effort the smiles and laughter cost her, but she did not mention it. 

"Do not pity me," she thought. "Visit me, speak to me, let me see your face, but for God's sake do not pity me." She did not say it. Arabella Strange believed her to be mad and took it as her duty to pity the mad. She was a good woman and a devoted friend — the only friend Emma could own. Emma never wished to hurt her, but with her own sensations worn to numbness it was hard to take care about others'. 

As Mrs Strange was leaving Stephen came to ask if she had a moment to spare to speak to Sir Walter. She readily agreed and said she could make her own way. Stephen stepped into the room. 

"Shall I ask your ladyship's maid to bring down a heavier shawl? It is a cold day."

"I do not feel it, Stephen, thank you." 

He bowed and went out of the room. 

Later in the day Walter came to the Venetian drawing-room. He held her hand — her right hand, always — and asked, inevitably, if there was anything he could do to make her more comfortable. He spoke on and on in a murmur with a desperate puzzled sadness buzzing under and through his words. 

"I am as comfortable as I expect I shall ever be," she said. 

Walter soon went away, having government business to attend to. 

And Emma thought of Stephen: of the night she had told him about her mother; how he had looked at her with eyes that were empty and distant; and how he had almost touched her hand. It had been easier than she could have imagined to tell him things she had hardly dared admit to herself. They were like two castaways clinging to the same piece of driftwood in a storm; words shared between them in the gloomy corridors of Lost-hope were only the shouts of doomed survivors upon the dark water, torn away by wind and waves as soon as spoken — inconsequential, gone. 

She had wanted to ask him about his mother; but she had not, and he had not offered to tell her. 

 

"Come this way, my lady, please." 

He shepherded her before him through the assembly and willed his resolve not to fail and the gentleman not to appear. From across the room he had seen the signs of danger — the awkward stiffness of Lady Pole's shoulders, her fairy partner making jerking movements to avoid the reckless list of her dancing as she vainly fought against the enchantment. At the end of the dance Stephen had gone to her and cut in; when the gentleman was not observing too closely he could sometimes chance these little rescues.

As they moved through the room Stephen marked, with that sick sense that was forever monitoring those around him for signs of fear or revulsion, how the fairies they passed subtly turned their attention away from himself and Lady Pole, taking care that they should not be noticed. In this way they reached the openings that were not exactly French windows and went out into the rocky park strewn with the débris of past battles under a purple-grey twilight. Stephen took them a little distance away, as far as he dared go, then stopped respectfully beside the overturned remains of some species of war-machine. Lady Pole went into the vast inky shadow of the machine, and Stephen, looking fixedly away, flinched as the first shattering wave of screams reached him. After a while the screams became sobs, which wore out into hoarse whimpers. Stephen made no attempt not to hear; he could shut out her confidences, but not her pain.

When she had been silent some moments, Lady Pole emerged again into the faint light shining through the few grimy windows of Lost-hope. 

"Come here, my lady. Your hair is coming down."

She came to him. He gave her a handkerchief from his pocket, which she took in silence and used to wipe her face as he arranged the loosened twists and curls of her hair as precisely as the most fashionable lady's maid could have done; he hated his hands all the while, but he would not be lax in performing any duty. When he had finished she turned to face him. 

"Let us go back in now, Stephen. I am ready." 

They returned, Stephen walking a step behind her. As he was passing inside he glimpsed a darting shape out of the corner of his eye, back the way they had come. He turned his head rapidly and just caught sight of the frightened little face he had seen two nights before staring at him from behind a blasted tree. He paused to watch for movement on the other side of the tree and had just seen a dark shape separate itself from the trunk when — 

"There you are, Stephen!" 

"Yes, sir," said Stephen, quelling his frustration. "Lady Pole and I took the opportunity between dances to admire the marks of your many triumphs over your enemies."

"I am honored that you should think of it, Stephen!" cried the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. "What a flattering interest you take in my paltry history! Have I told you how I once slew five thousand enemies in a single minute by the clever use of a poisoned mist?"

"I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing that, sir. Please tell me, if you are inclined. It sounds a heroic tale." 

"It is, it is indeed! Heroic is just the word for it! How perceptive you are, Stephen. Well, listen to this..." 

Over the gentleman's shoulder Stephen saw the pale gleam of Lady Pole's gown as she retreated into a dim corner. 

 

She was very calm all that next day. The dismal fog between herself and the world had grown so opaque she could hardly recognize the people in the street as fellow creatures. Sitting in her habitual pose by the window she tried to remember how to feel and forgot from one minute to the next what she was about. 

She had no visitors. More often than could have been necessary she sensed Stephen passing noiselessly in the corridor. Though he made no move to look into the room it could not have been more plain that he was keeping watch over her. Always hesitant to show any familiarity towards her in England, he was especially distant the day after he had done her any peculiar service at Lost-hope, taking refuge in a formality so utterly correct he all but disappeared behind it. 

Towards evening she could take it no longer. When he passed by the door again she called, "Stephen! Please come inside."

He came in and made her a very correct bow. "How may I be of service, my lady?"

She was almost moved to irritation. "I suppose you will not sit down?" she asked, gesturing to the sofa across from her. 

"I thank you for the honor, my lady, but, no."

She saw from his expression that her clumsy attempt at gratitude was an insult to him. "Forgive me," she said. "I forget myself." 

"My lady..."

"What is it?"

"Last night I saw the face again."

"The child's face at the window?"

"Yes. The child — or — whatever manner of creature it was — hid behind a tree."

"You are certain this time." She thought a moment. "I almost feel I could be curious. Are you curious, Stephen?"

"I confess I am uneasy about it. It seemed to me that the child wished to speak to us, but was shy or frightened. I fear there will be no chance for me to investigate." 

"For _us_ to investigate."

"I... Yes, my lady. It will certainly not be possible for some nights."

Because whatever goodwill he had with their captor, he had burned through it for her sake. Emma understood. She only said, "You will tell me when you think the time right, and we will find out what we can. And..."

He waited for her to go on.

"And I am quite well, Stephen. Really, I am. Please do not trouble yourself." 

He smiled sadly, and nodded. 

 

Almost a month passed before Stephen felt they could venture to investigate the grounds of Lost-hope without too great a risk. During that time he only once saw the frightened little shape, darting among the trees as Stephen was forced to parade through them at the gentleman's side. It was certainly a small girl — or looked that way.

Then one night the gentleman made his excuses early, saying he had business with a troublesome old acquaintance that could not wait. He was leaving Stephen and Lady Pole to be entertained by his subjects, though he did not expect they would in any way make up for the loss of his company. 

Stephen caught Lady Pole's eye and saw her nod once, firmly. After the next dance they found each other and went out again into the grounds. It was grey daylight, time in Faerie having little to do with time in England. 

"Where did you see it?"

"Among those trees, I believe." 

They came to the trees and waited. 

"Please come out, little one," said Stephen. "We will not harm you. I believe you were trying to attract our attention. Let us help you, if we may."

They waited again. Then at the limit of his vision Stephen glimpsed the dark shape moving, lingering, then moving on again. "There," he said. "I believe she wants us to follow her."

"And if it should be a trap?" asked Lady Pole. 

Stephen shrugged and had the satisfaction of seeing her give a wry smile. 

"Indeed," she said. "I do not see it. Perhaps your sight is superior to mine. Lead on."

Stephen kept them at a careful distance from the flitting dark shape, approaching by degrees. They walked on a considerable distance, farther than they had ever before been from the house. The landscape grew wilder and crueler still, until they could hardly keep their footing for the trees and the gouges carved in the earth. Stephen, engaged in tracking the child, would have fallen down an unexpected slope had Lady Pole not caught him by the arm in a grip of tremendous strength. Before he could say anything, she disclaimed his gratitude. 

"Surely you must see her now," he said.

"I see nothing." A concerned frown creased her forehead as she followed his gesture. 

Soon after that the child stopped in a little clearing and waited, facing them. When they were a yard away from her, Stephen could at last see her clearly. She was perhaps ten years old, or it may have been a malnourished twelve or thirteen. Her eyes were dark and huge and had nothing in them but despair. Her shapeless gown was as dirty as her cap. 

"Hello?" said Stephen. 

The child did not speak. 

Lady Pole caught her breath beside him. He turned to her and saw her gaze fixed upon the ground at the child's feet, an indescribable expression on her face. 

"Lady Pole?"

"I do not see a child," she said. 

Hard tears glittered in her eyes. Her face was very still. She held out her left hand to him, and without a thought he took it. Then he saw what she saw. 

There was no child. There was only a small dead thing curled on the ground.

It was not a sad dead thing. Like the dank cold world exposed when one turns over a stone it was disgusting and inhuman. Only by its rough shape and its dentition could it be identified as the remains of a child. This made it all the more horrible. Stephen gave a strangled scream. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed convulsively.

"She brought us here..." he said. 

Then a voice spoke as if from inside his own head, a small voice, a voice like the rustle of withered grass: _kill me kill me kill me let me go,_ it said. 

From the crushing grip of her hand he knew Lady Pole heard it too. He felt himself gripping back with the same bruising force and could not stop.

"Oh, you poor miserable thing," cried Lady Pole, "do not you know you are already dead?" 

_enchanted,_ the dry voice whispered into their minds, _heart still beats thousand years did nothing wrong only wanted home._

Hesitating, stumbling, the two of them approached the less than corpse and looked. It was true -- inside the ruin of the ribcage something like a heart still beat on. 

Stephen had to look away. 

"We must help it," said Lady Pole. "Oh, Stephen, we must! Is there a heavy rock somewhere?" She dropped his hand and began to scour the ground. 

Stephen saw the child again, crouching beside her own pitiful remains. He reached out to put a hand on her small head but felt only air. He met her eyes and tried to smile. "It will soon be over," he said. 

"Here!" said Lady Pole. She hefted a nail-studded club, damp earth still crumbling from one side of it. 

Stephen made a gesture towards the little girl, forgetting Lady Pole could not see her, but she understood anyway. Nodding, she raised the club and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Stephen held the dead child's gaze and did not see her strike but heard the sickening thumps as the club came down once, twice, a third time.

The girl vanished. 

"It is done," he said.

A last thump sounded as Lady Pole dropped the club. 

Then Stephen sank to his knees and wept. Lady Pole knelt beside him stone-faced and laid her cool hand against his brow. 

"Come, Stephen," she said, and her voice was not so steady as her features. "All is well. We have done what was necessary. The poor creature is at rest now. The enchantment is broken. Nothing can hurt it. It is all right, Stephen. Come, calm yourself. I cannot bear to see you weep so." 

He wiped his eyes and nose and tried to say something to reassure her, but the words would not come to him. She was on her knees, the delicate fabric of her gown pierced and stained by the withered grass and the shards of rusted metal bristling from it. "My lady, take care. Your gown..."

"Confound my gown!" she said. "I do not give a — a _hang_ about my gown! It is only sorcery and moonshine anyhow. _Stephen — !"_

Her insistent cry was the last thing he heard. The tone of it continued to torment him throughout what next occurred. The gentleman's shining hair appeared before his eyes and then seemed to expand until it filled his whole field of vision, a radiant whiteness, featureless and hard and beyond enduring. 

 

 _She had wandered into Faerie while looking for fresh pasture for her sheep. The sheep had bolted out of terror and she was caught and put to work as a standard-bearer in the_ brugh _. When her tears of homesickness and terror disgusted the fairy he struck her down. To punish her he kept her alive — just. Through countless years she circled her slowly decaying body, the incessant drag of it a pain to her insubstantial form. At first she hoped someone would come to release her; then she did not hope._

Emma came to herself with a gasp. She did not know if she had slept, but she had surely dreamed. The dream had been terrible, but she could not recall it. She was in her bed, and the maid was throwing open the curtains. There were tears soaking her pillow and a sick taste in her mouth. She turned her face away from the light. When she had heard the maid leave she gave herself up to a fit of sobbing. 

When her own maid came to dress her she immediately asked, "Where is Mr Black?"

Pampisford was evidently taken aback by this question. "I cannot say, my lady." 

"But he is in the house?"

"I really do not know." 

Emma left off then. If Stephen were well he would not thank her for causing a stir. But she could not be comfortable. Her heavy limbs burdened her more than ever, and they shook. She was too restless to sit still, but all the activity she could command herself to was a periodic removal from the window to the sofa and back. 

Her left hand was bruised where Stephen had held on to it. She held the bruised palm to her cheek and worried. 

When Walter came to see her late in the morning, she said all in a rush, "Tell me, I have not seen Stephen today, do you know where he is?"

Walter looked perfectly blank. His face twisted into a puzzled frown, which gradually cleared into a look of enlightenment. So excellent a canvas was his face for these alterations of mood that under other circumstances she would have laughed. At last Walter said, "Stephen is negotiating a purchase for me in Twickenham. He left very early this morning." Uncertainly, he added, "I... am sorry not to have mentioned it before?" 

"Thank you," said Emma, vaguely. "I only wondered." The answer did not make her easy. Even without the shiver that stood in the air as Walter pondered she would have known it was only enchantment that made him believe he knew where Stephen was. More than anything, this convinced her that the gentleman with the thistle-down hair had enacted some terrible vengeance upon him for meddling with the dreadful dead child. She cursed the fairy with every curse she knew for excluding her from his punishment.

For the rest of the day she was in a perfect agony of misery and suspense, until in the evening Stephen himself entered the drawing-room looking unharmed and a great deal calmer than she had seen him last. 

"Good evening, my lady. I heard your ladyship was kind enough to ask about me today." 

There was a gentle rebuke in his voice that she could not stand.

"Oh!" she cried. "How _can_ you — ! Here I have been utterly helpless, imagining all manner of horrors... Tell me, _please_ tell me what happened to you." 

He looked about himself and then, with an air of immense dignity and condescension, sat down beside her on the sofa. In spite of herself she smiled. 

"There, that is well," she said. "Go on." 

"I am not entirely certain what happened," he said. "I... I heard you call my name, and then everything was gone. When I was next aware of myself I found I was in Twickenham, engaged in a piece of business I had meant to wait until next week. There was nothing to do but conclude it and make my way back here. I am truly sorry to have caused you distress." 

"It was nothing," she said. "I thought the enchanter had punished you. It is no matter, now I see you well."

"I believe he was panicked," said Stephen. "We found something he did not expect we should. It will be worse with us in future, I expect." 

"But to have unsettled him for a moment is still something. Yes, I believe you have hit upon it." Freed now from anxiety on his behalf, she asked the question that had been growing in the back of her mind. "Stephen... Why could I not see the child?"

"You saw her as she truly was, beneath the enchantment holding her to that world. Surely that is on account of the magic that returned you to life."

"Is it? You may be right. I had begun to think..." 

"Yes?"

"...you are so very good, Stephen. I do not know how you manage it."

He was silent. As the seconds ticked on she felt the gulf that had momentarily closed yawning wider and wider between them. 

"Your ladyship is too kind," he whispered. His right hand was clenched in a fist at his side. 

"I see," she said. 

He stood and bowed. She tried to return him a curtsey but could not arrange her limbs.

He was gone.


End file.
